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Jennika shakes her head in warning, urging me to let it go, to not push my luck. And while I choose to give her that, she can’t stop me from saying, “How come your English is so good?”
I eye him suspiciously, noting the way his sudden laugh causes the skin around his eyes to crinkle and fan, while his teeth flash straight and white in a way not often seen in these parts. A clue that leaves me not the least bit surprised when he says, “I studied medicine in the States—at the University of Pennsylvania, to be exact. Though the truth is, I was born right here in Marrakesh. So after several years of residency abroad, I returned home. I do hope this meets with your approval?” He nods, waits for my reply, but I just shrug and look away. “Is there anything else you’d like to know before I check all your vital signs?” He waves his stethoscope at me.
Interpreting my sigh as consent, he lowers the sheet, causing me to cringe under the press of cold metal that works its way along the edge of my tank top as he orders me to take several deep breaths. And after looking into my eyes with a harsh lighted instrument, staring into my mouth and depressing my tongue with a smooth wooden stick as I’m told to say, Awwww, he places two fingers to the side of my neck, just under my jaw, where he locates my pulse as his gaze tracks the second hand on his expensive gold watch.
“Excellent,” he says, nodding when he adds, “I trust you slept well?” He tucks the stethoscope into the bag and busies himself with inspecting my bandages, turning my arms this way and that without bothering to untie them, which really burns me up.
“You want to know if I slept well?” I lift my head and frown. “Untie me. Untie me right now, and I’ll fill you in on whatever you want to know.”
The disingenuous smile that seemed glued to his face just a moment ago quickly fades, as Jennika rushes to my side and rubs her hand over my shoulder in a failed attempt to subdue me.
“You can’t keep me like this! I have rights and you know it!” I shout, but my words fall on deaf ears.
Dr. Ziati just looks at me and says, “Young lady, do you have any idea what brought you here in the first place?”
Yeah—glowing people, decapitated heads, and crows—thousands and thousands of them. And because of it, I had no choice but to maul a major up-and-coming movie star so that I could break free. What of it?
But of course I don’t say that; it’s a truth no one wants to believe, much less hear.
“Do you remember the things that you did—the things that you said?”
I shrug in reply. There’s no use going on. One look at his smug expression tells me he’ll never be on my side, wouldn’t so much as consider it.
“You exhibited all of the symptoms of one who is under the influence of drugs—a hallucinogen of some sort. I’ve witnessed this type of behavior before—always with tourists.” His tone smacks of the same disdain that glints in his eyes. “Only in your case, it has just been confirmed that the blood sample we took came back clean. Which leads me to my next question—have you experienced this sort of delusion before?”
I glance between him and Jennika—her face stricken with worry, his creased with morbid curiosity—then I roll my head ’til I’m facing the other way, preferring a view of the elaborate blue-tiled bathroom to either of them. There’s no point in defending myself to those who refuse to be swayed.
“You spoke of glowing people chasing you, large black crows taunting you, along with thousands of severed bloodied heads that filled up the square and beckoned to you.”
A gasp fills the room, prompting me to turn just in time to see Fatima clutching the small golden hamsa charm that hangs from her neck, her head bowed in hushed, fervent prayer, until a sharp word from the doctor warns her to stop.
“I’m afraid these can easily be classified as delusions of a rather paranoid nature.” He returns to me. “And while I have no idea what might have provoked the episode as there were no drugs or alcohol involved, I will say that it’s not uncommon for a genetic, chemical imbalance to begin showing signs of itself during the latter part of adolescence.” His words now directed at Jennika when he adds, “It is my understanding that Daire has just reached her sixteenth birthday?”
Jennika nods, lifts a hand to her mouth and chews on a purple-painted nail.
“Well, excuse me for asking, but is there any history of mental illness in your family?”
I slide my gaze toward Jennika, seeing the way her face tightens. Her eyes brimming with barely checked tears as she stammers, “What? No! No. Or at least not—not that I’m aware of … nothing that I can think of … at least not offhand anyway…”
Her gaze grows distant as she shakes her head—two sure signs that she’s lying—holding on to some pertinent piece of info she refuses to share. A suspicion so horrible she’s unwilling to admit it to herself, much less the doctor, which only makes me even more curious. I have no idea who she could possibly suspect.
Jennika’s an only child who’s been on her own for a really long time. Didn’t even realize she was pregnant with me until after my dad had passed on. And though it took a while for her parents to adjust to the idea of their seventeen-year-old daughter giving birth when she should’ve been sitting for her SATs, they came around eventually. Helping her get her diploma, looking after me while she went on to get her cosmetology license at night school—she’d just scored her first job as an on-set makeup artist when they perished in a small plane crash on their way to a much-anticipated weekend in Napa Valley.
After selling the house and just about everything in it that didn’t fit into a duffle bag, Jennika and I hit the road, moving from set to set, staying either in short-term rentals or with random friends between gigs. She enrolled me in Internet school as soon as I was eligible—ensuring that we never slow down, never commit to anything we might miss when we lose it.
“Life is impermanent,” she likes to say. Claiming the majority of the people spend the majority of their lives trying to dodge all signs of change only to find that they can’t. As far as she’s concerned, we may as well embrace it—may as well seek the change before the change can seek us.
I’m the only lasting attachment she allows herself to have. For as long as I can remember, our family’s consisted of her and me and a slew of random people that stream in and out of our lives.
Somewhere out there is a grandmother I’ve never met—my dad’s mom. But Jennika refuses to talk about her. From what little I’ve managed to glean, my grandma disappeared right after she lost her only son. Pretty much just fell off the face of the earth, as Jennika tells it, and since she had no way to reach her, my grandma doesn’t even know I exist.
All of which brings me right back to … nothing. I have no idea who in the family might have gone psycho. Might’ve caused me, through some faulty genetic link, to go psycho too. Jennika is the o
nly family I know. And while she certainly has her fair share of crazy, it’s normal crazy, not clinical crazy.
Like any parent, her only goal has always been to protect me, but from the distraught look on her face, I see that she’s beginning to doubt that she can.
Dr. Ziati glances between us, his voice calm, face placid, looking as though he’s spent a lifetime dispensing exactly this kind of life-changing news. “I’m afraid your daughter is in serious need of help. Left untreated, this sort of thing will only get worse. And while we’ve managed to stabilize her for now, it won’t last. It is imperative that you return to the States as soon as you can. And when you do, you must get her to see a mental health care provider, preferably a psychiatrist, without delay. They’ve made great advances in psychiatric drugs in the past several years. Many people with imbalances such as Daire’s go on to live normal, healthy lives. With the right kind of treatment, regular counseling, and provided she stays on course with her prescribed medication, I see no reason why she can’t move forward in a productive and positive way.”
